I am a pooper-picker-upper, and that’s okay. I don’t always have the most glamorous life, and until my name is Gwyneth Paltrow and I have the cash money to pay someone to do it for me, I’m going to pick up dog poop until I die. But I see you, Neighbor, checking up on me as I wave my own butt around picking up the results of another being’s butt. And this one’s for you:
You are worse than my mother. And my boss. Combined. Yes, I have switched to name brand vitamins. Yes, I have submitted my invoices. Yes, dear Neighbor, I am picking up my dog’s poop. I am a responsible adult, and I got this.
Your obvious disgust must stem from the fact that you’ve never
owned been lucky enough to share a home with a big, slobbering delight of fur. And for that, I grieve for you. I have no problems with cat people. The tabby that hangs out in your front window looks perfectly pleasant. But I have never once knocked on your door to monitor your litter box.
Neighbor, I really wish I knew what your problem is. You must be worried that my dog’s doo leaves a skidmark on our pristine neighborhood.
You seem oddly obsessed with ensuring my back yard is feces free, and it mostly is. Sometimes I miss a pile of treasure, but even if I do, it’s none of your business. It’s mine. Well, technically it’s my dog’s…never mind. I’m committed to my duty to picking up doody, but I don’t need the extra stares and glares you dish out from your kitchen window. If you’re that interested in my dog’s bowel habits, I suggest you find a hobby. Candlemaking. Solitaire. Anything. But seriously, cut the crap-watching.
Neighbor, I really wish I knew what your problem is. You must be worried that my dog’s doo leaves a skidmark on our pristine neighborhood. But why do you watch me, specifically? Is it just convenient for you because I live next door? You should check out Noodles’ yard around the corner. Not to be a tattle-tail, but that’s whose lawn could really use a clean-up.
I want to be friends with you — I really do. It’s getting so nice out. I’d love to invite you over for a margarita or two, but I’m afraid of the consequences. What if I have to use the pooper scooper directly in front of you? I shudder to think.
I can only imagine the notes you must be taking while I journey about my yard:
7:54 a.m. – Bag over hand technique with overhand knot; University of Miami sweatshirt, plaid sleep pants.
6:38 p.m. – Opts for plastic scooper, deposits directly in bagged trash can; pencil skirt, cardigan
For the most part, we are respectful neighbors. I make sure my pup never goes into your yard. We respect the “please, oh please don’t pee on the trees” signs on your sidewalk. (Those are really weird, by the way.) I know that sometimes we get a little rowdy next door when the football comes out, but we mean well.
Please know that you can live a peaceful, fulfilling life without glaring in the direction of my dog’s butt.
I want to remind you that life is messy. And if the worst of that means you checking up on my poo-routine, I’d say I have it pretty good. But I know that somewhere behind those apple-print curtains, there is a person whose life doesn’t revolve around dog poop.
Please know that you can live a peaceful, fulfilling life without glaring in the direction of my dog’s butt. I beg you to find your inner fun person and do anything but what you’re currently doing, morning and night. We will all thank you: me, my dog and your husband that does not qualify dog doo as adequate pillow talk.
In short, I’m sorry you feel that I cannot be responsible about my dog’s Number Twos. I’m sorry that you haven’t yet found a more fulfilling way to spend your time. I’m sorry you have to see me without a bra at the break of dawn as I scour my back yard for digested kibble. I’ll work on that. But I swear, if I see you supervising my scooping again, I will leave a pile of it on your doorstep.
OK, just kidding, I won’t. I’m just too nice of a neighbor.
P.S. Don’t be this neighbor:
Featured image via @dogstakingdumps